


choose how we're made

by AliuIce0814



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Self-Harm, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Trans Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 16:25:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10494855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliuIce0814/pseuds/AliuIce0814
Summary: It's no fun being a trans guy in 1938.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: dysphoria, panic attacks, period-typical concepts of gender, self-harm.

Steve just can't get his breasts to lie flat today. The difference doesn't seem to be noticeable to anyone else--none of his fellow muralists say anything to indicate they see him as a dame rather then the guy he claims to be. But every time he bends down to dip his brush in a paint can, he notices the subtle curve. The sight makes his ribs constrict. 

He doesn't joke with the guys like usual. He barely hears as Johnny tells everybody about the costumes he's been sewing for some fairies who want to sing at the bars. Usually Steve listens closely; Johnny's a careful seamstress, and Steve appreciates learning about the artistry of it. But today he just can't. Not when he can't fucking breathe without seeing his breasts move. 

He walks home alone, not bothering to splash water on his arms to rinse off some of the paint first. He walks home, breaths coming faster and faster until his hands are cold and shaking. He walks home as the city goes gray around him, the sun dipping behind skyscrapers. 

Steve makes it into the kitchen and stands there, staring at the rusted stove. He should make Bucky dinner. That's what a good housewife would do. A good girl like the dames Bucky takes dancing, the ones who curl their silky hair with rags, the ones who paint their lips red, the ones who wear their dresses a size too tight so their breasts curve out toward Bucky when he twirls them around. 

\--A good fairy would make Bucky dinner too, Steve thinks, digging his blunt fingernails into his paint-stained palms. Johnny and his man are practically married. Steve knows Johnny runs home every night and cooks his fella a big, rich meal, maybe stew or a pot pie. Johnny's sweet: he has the longest eyelashes and bitten-red lips. 

Steve's nothing like that. He's this thing with cowlicky hair and too-long fingers and knobbly elbows and worst of all breasts, two curves he ties down with strips of cloth so he can keep pretending he's a real man. 

Steve yanks his sleeveless shirt over his head. His fingers scrabble at the rough binding around his breasts, tearing it off. Each piece of cloth flutters to the stained floor. Steve drags air into his lungs, but it's not enough. Pain blooms across his chest from his bad rib, which broke in a fight years ago and never healed because he has to tie himself down flat. He digs his hand into the skin over that rib and feels the pain grow wider, brighter, stronger. His eyes are wet. The dingy kitchen is blurry. 

Keys jingle in the front door. Steve lets go of himself, breath catching in his throat, as Bucky's beautiful whistle echoes through their apartment. "Heya, punk," Bucky calls as the door clicks shut behind him. "Where ya at?"

Steve's bitter tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. He wraps his spindly arms around his bare chest as if they'll hide anything. Each breath feels like someone's got a damp cloth over his face and is pressing down hard. 

"Stevie?" Bucky says. There's laughter in his voice. "Why're you hiding, doll? You shy?"

Steve hears the thump of Bucky kicking off his work boots. His footsteps make the floorboards creak as he walks into the tucked-away, tiny kitchen. All of Bucky's breath punches out in an 'oh.' Steve's forearms cover his nipples. He digs his fingers into his crooked ribs. He hopes he draws blood. 

"Sweetheart," Bucky says. He moves toward Steve, all furrowed-brow concern. 

Steve hunches over himself and bares his teeth. "Stay away," he snaps. If he could straighten up without exposing his breasts, he would hold up his fists. 

Bucky pauses half a foot away from Steve. "Hey," he says softly. 

Steve's throat convulses. "Don't," he says, tasting sour bile. "I'm not, don't look at me, I'm not--" He presses down on his broken rib, but the pain isn't enough. He grabs his breasts, two small handfuls of fat, barely there but still too much. He squeezes and pinches and claws. It doesn't change a damn thing. They're still there. 

"Hey," Bucky says, voice sharp. His broad hands catch Steve's wrists. They encircle him easily. Steve could disappear inside of Bucky. His breath comes as a pained squeak. He tries to dig his fingers into his breasts, but Bucky drags his hands up and away until they rest against his own chest. His heartbeat flutters against Steve's palm. "Steve, stop. You're hurting yourself. You're scaring me. Now stop."

"I don't want them. I can't have them. I don't look right, I'm not right, Bucky, please," Steve chokes. He hates how wet his face is. He hates the snot suddenly streaming from his nose. Bucky kisses his scratched, paint-covered knuckles, watching Steve with those wide blue eyes. Steve shudders. "Please, Buck, please."

"Anything, sweetheart, what do you need?" Bucky litters anxious kisses on Steve's hands. Steve's breasts move every time he shivers. 

"Fix it," Steve pleads. "Get rid of them. Fix it." Bucky's face crumples into miserable lines. Steve hates himself so much that his whole body aches. "I'm sorry. I know that's not fair. I'll be okay. Don't worry about it."

"Ain't gotta lie to me," Bucky says lowly. "Not ever, you understand? I wish I could fix it, Stevie. God almighty, I wish I could."

Steve drops his forehead against Bucky's chest. "I know." He can't stop shaking. He wants to apologize, but he says "please" instead. 

Bucky rubs his knuckles with his thumbs. "What does my best guy need? Huh? You need me to take care of you?"

"Can take care of myself," Steve says on reflex. He leans more heavily on Bucky anyway. His work shirt is scratchy, but it smells sharp, like sweat and cologne. 

"Go sit down," Bucky says, pushing Steve toward their broken-down couch. Steve stumbles there and sits, spinning head flopping against the back. From the kitchen, Bucky calls, "How's your stomach? Can you eat?"

Steve swallows. "Hurts," he admits. "But it'll hurt more empty."

"Let's start you on crackers, then." Bucky pulls a box of saltines out of the cabinet and tosses it onto the couch beside Steve. Steve nibbles on a cracker, focusing on the salt and the sound of the sink running instead of the burn of his broken rib. 

When Bucky sits beside him on the couch, Steve tilts sideways to put his head in his lap. "Hang on," Bucky says, catching him by his shoulders. He holds a cool glass to Steve's lips until he sips the water. "What else?" Bucky asks. 

"Need a shirt," Steve says. He squints up at Bucky's hair flopping in his eyes after a day of work. He looks at Bucky's pretty pink mouth. He ignores his own breasts the best he can. 

"Sit up." Bucky shoves at Steve's shoulders. Steve thinks he's going to go into the kitchen to get his shirt from the floor, but instead Bucky unbuttons his own shirt and wraps it around Steve. Steve burrows into its scratchiness. He inhales sweat and cologne. The shirt is so large that no one can see Steve's shape at all. He lunges forward and presses his dry mouth against Bucky's. Bucky cradles Steve's head in one of his big hands. 

"Talk to me," Steve says. He lies down, head in Bucky's lap, swallowed up by a real man's shirt. Somehow, he feels safer. "Talk to me 'til I fall asleep."

"I ain't that boring," Bucky grouses. He pets Steve's hair so gently. "Punk. My Stevie. My best guy."

"Yeah." Steve's chest burns. He closes his eyes. Bucky's fingers stroke his hair until he can't feel them anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on my current issues with dysphoria. Unlike Steve, I can get top surgery, although right now it's painfully out of reach--that shit's expensive. 
> 
> I typed this all on my phone. Please point out typos!


End file.
